


awakening

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Colonization (X-Files)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: After the war, Mulder and Krycek meet again.





	awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 16th Lyric Wheel, the 'Beginnings Wheel', April 2004. Vague references to 'Tunguska' and 'RatB'. Season 8 never happened in this timeline. 'Requiem' probably didn't happen either.
> 
> Thank you to Waterfall for the lyrics. 
> 
> To all the inspiring friends in my life, old and new ones alike--most especially Verily, Leda, Meixia, Shan, Satina, and my sweet Logan.

Fighting a war isn't easy. 

That's something that Mulder's known for as long as he can remember. It seems to him as if he's always been fighting something, numerous private wars throughout the years. They have all left their scars on him, some more visible than others, but he's survived. Maybe he's even grown stronger. Maybe wiser. 

Maybe.

It's a terrible thing, then, to realize that winning a war can be just as hard as fighting it. Killing off an entire species, even one that's tried to kill and enslave one's own is a heavy burden to bear. They're all guilty, the whole sorry human race. Or at least what's left of it. A planet full of murderers. 

Saying that people didn't have a choice is a lie. They had a choice, and they made it.

Among all the horrors that the aliens inflicted upon humankind, that may be the most abominable one. 

*

Once colonization happens and armed combat begins in earnest, the high-horse Mulder had ridden in his FBI days quickly becomes a casualty of war, another carcass among many, left to rot in the battlefield. Each time he reflects on it, on the things he's doing in his desperate struggle to survive, the urge to apologize to Krycek is an urgent thing inside him, demanding to be spoken. But Krycek's never there to hear it, and it's only in his heart that Mulder tells him, _I understand now. I know._

The day he receives the official word about humanity's victory there's no euphoria. Even the ripple of relief that runs through his unit is a humble one. They all know it could've been them instead of the aliens. The unit's leader--an ex-marine man, and the most superstitious person Mulder's ever met--tells them that despite all their bravery and heroic efforts, in the end what really allowed them to win was luck. Just that: dumb luck. No one disagrees with him. 

He looks straight at Mulder when he says that. Mulder nods at him, and he nods back. The respect he has for Mulder is mutual: he'd been retired out of the Marine Corps for rubbing his superiors the wrong way with his irrational beliefs. A fitting person to lead Mulder in a war against aliens, some would've said. He's the kind of person who seems to have a superstition about everything; Mulder doesn't ask him if there are any about leaving without saying goodbye. 

Less than one hour after that announcement, Mulder's on the road, carrying a battered backpack with all the belongings he has left, off to look for- _something_. Somewhere he can settle down, maybe. Friends that might've survived. A reason to go on. 

He walks for miles, hitchhikes, walks again. He lives off the kindness of strangers. Nearly everyone he meets seems to be shell shocked; no one really laughs anymore, but they share whatever food and water they have with him. Many people are missing limbs, and more than once Mulder thinks one of the men walking ahead of him might be Krycek. But drawing closer, he sees it isn't him. It's never him, and the words inside him go on unsaid. 

The days and weeks pass in a blur of unknown faces and desolate, burned-out places, until he loses count of them. The weather patterns shifted and became erratic during the war--one of the many aftereffects of the weapons either humans or aliens used--and he can't even guess what month it is, never mind what season it's supposed to be. 

When he comes upon a lone flower growing by the side of the road, he chooses to believe that it's spring. A season of rebirth. A time of new beginnings. It is, he decides, the first flower of spring. It's certainly the first flower he's seen in years. 

He doesn't pick it. He just stands there looking at it, a fragile looking daisy. Thinking that it probably won't survive the next strong wind or rain shower. Remembering that daisies mean loyal love and innocence. Wondering briefly if he'll ever see either one of those again. 

He also remembers that finding the first flower of spring is said to be an omen, depending on which day of the week it is: Monday means good fortune, Tuesday great attempts that will be successful. Wednesday means marriage. Thursday warns of small profits, Friday means wealth, Saturday misfortune and Sunday excellent luck for weeks. 

Assuming that it isn't Wednesday, Thursday or Saturday, then, he's safe.

It's not long after that that he reaches the edge of the world. Literally. 

He's been slowly and steadily heading east, making his way back home, wanting to see if his apartment building is still standing, more for sentimental reasons than anything else. 

The building isn't there anymore. Neither is the street. Nor the city. 

The whole state seems to be gone. 

Where Virginia is supposed to be, there's a hole. A crater. Black and empty, so big it boggles the mind, stretching out in every direction. Grotesque. 

He stares at it, numbly, unable to process what he's seeing at first, and then unwilling to accept the reality of it. He'd heard of such things during the worst of it, whenever news had trickled in--it was said that half of China and Eastern Europe were gone, that a big part of Canada had been buried under a barrage of alien fire, that Hawaii was nothing more than barren rock now. He's seen more than enough evidence of destruction on his way back from Oregon, where he spent most of the war. But this- he can't understand how he hadn't heard about it. How no one had told him about it on his long trek here. 

He falls to his knees there, still staring. He doesn't pray; he doesn't cry. He just looks, like he'd recently looked at the flower. But where the flower had been the hope of life, a gentle reminder of beauty, this was the certainty of death, brutal, obscene. 

_I was here,_ he thinks. _Once, I was here._

Dumb luck. Just that. 

Had Scully been there when it happened? Skinner? Langly, Frohike, Byers. Had they been there? All the people he'd known, the few ones he'd loved. Were they gone? All the millions he'd never laid eyes on. Dead. 

Another hard realization hits him in that moment: he'd most likely never know. He wouldn't be able to know if anyone he knew had survived unless he happened to find them. And there was no way to look. Where to start? There was no evidence left to sift through, no trail to chase after. Skinner and the Gunmen had no out of state relatives that he knew of, and Scully's brothers and their families had gathered at Margaret Scully's house at the beginning of the war so that the whole clan could be together. 

Alive or dead, then, they're all somewhere he can't follow.

Mulder doesn't know how long he stays on his knees looking at nothing. All he knows is that eventually exhaustion and grief catch up with him, and he curls on the ground and sleeps. 

It's early morning when he wakes up, his stomach growling. He sits up, still facing that abyss, and rummages through his backpack to find something to eat. His hands tremble as his fingers brush against the framed photograph of Scully, the signed first edition of Contact that was a birthday present from Byers, his wallet. Of all things, he still has his stupid wallet. It holds only his FBI badge, a few coins, and the note Krycek left for him all those years before, directing him to Wiekamp. He wants to laugh, but what rises out of him is a sob, loud and broken, piercing the stillness of that place so acutely it makes his heart lurch in his chest. His hands tremble harder, his whole body shakes; absently he notices that in his state of agitation, some of his things have fallen out of his backpack, among them his fork. _To drop a fork means a man is coming to visit,_ his trivia-filled memory supplies. For a dizzy second he wonders which of the ghosts he carries with him it will be. 

He does laugh then, a sound somehow worse than his sob had been. He starts shoving his scattered belongings into his backpack again, and is startled when a voice speaks behind him.

"You didn't know," it says, the words sounding uncertain, almost like a question. 

Mulder freezes. That voice- It's _him_. Not just any ghost, but Mulder's favorite one. The one person that has always haunted him. 

Mulder draws in a deep breath and turns around to face him. Krycek looks well for a ghost, Mulder thinks. Somewhat thinner than when he'd last seen him, but otherwise looking healthier. Tanned skin, a few more lines on his face, hair as dark as Mulder remembers yet beginning to gray at the fringes. He's wearing faded blue jeans and army boots, a t-shirt that looks as if it's seen better days. Mulder can't tell what color it is; he guesses it's either red or green. 

Krycek steps nearer, his eyes shining, locked on Mulder's. His clean shaven face makes Mulder raise a hand to his own face, the stubble growth of days scratchy under his fingers. Shaving's a luxury he hasn't been indulging in very often, and Mulder wonders how he looks to him. 

As Krycek crouches down next to him, Mulder wants to reach out and touch him. He wants to finally tell him all the things that have been waiting inside him for a chance to be said. To tell him he missed him. To ask if he's really here, or if he's conjured him somehow. 

But Krycek's the one to touch him first, his one hand coming to rest tentatively on Mulder's cheek for a too brief caress. Mulder can still feel the tingle of Krycek's fingers on his skin after he pulls his hand away. No one's touched him in so long, and that simple contact suddenly reminds Mulder's body that despite the horror lying only a few feet away from them, both of them still seem to be very much alive. 

"You didn't know," Krycek says again, and this time his tone is surer. Mulder looks away from him for a second to glance at the flagrant absence to his right, and when his eyes meet Krycek's again he sees that the gleam in his gaze is one of unshed tears. Mulder does touch him then, stroking Krycek's cheek as Krycek stroked his, but allowing his hand to linger. Krycek feels so warm.

"It's not radioactive," Krycek whispers, his voice sounding rougher than usual, scraping against Mulder's insides and making him shiver. Mulder gapes at him, showing him that that particular possibility hadn't even crossed his mind. Krycek shivers as well, as if in response, and brings his hand to Mulder's cheek again, traces Mulder's jaw with his fingers, slides them shakily through his hair. "Mulder-" 

Mulder swallows. "What- what are you doing here?" he rasps, shaking with Krycek. Inwardly kicking himself for not greeting him with better words. 

Krycek doesn't seem to mind. "I came looking for you," he tells Mulder. "When I heard about this, I thought-" He shakes his head. "I knew there'd be nothing here, but I wanted to see. And I thought that if you were still alive, this would be the only place where I might find you." He exhales sharply, lowers his hand and his eyes, an expression of wonder and sorrow settling over his features. "It's unbelievable that I did. You could've been anywhere, you could've been-"

"But I'm not," Mulder says, cutting him off. "I'm here, Alex. I'm really here." 

Krycek shivers visibly again when Mulder says his name, but doesn't immediately raise his eyes to Mulder's. Instead he reaches for Mulder's knife lying on the ground next to them and hands it to Mulder, hilt first, only then looking at him. 

Mulder takes it from him, their fingers brushing, electricity sparking his heart and his brain. He puts the knife away and reaches for his wallet, taking out a quarter and giving it to Krycek. Heads up, just to be sure. 

Krycek smiles as he looks at it. There are more tears in his eyes now, and Mulder's own vision blurs as he smiles back at him. 

"Wanna flip it?" Krycek asks, getting back to his feet, helping Mulder stand up as well. "You're packed, we could leave, head- somewhere," he shrugs. "Anywhere. We can drive for a day, and then we'll take a look at the map."

"Drive?" Mulder asks. 

Krycek laughs as Mulder looks around and spots an old pickup parked some distance from them. He hadn't heard the engine when Krycek arrived. 

Mulder shoulders his backpack and looks back at Krycek. "I think we're going to need new maps," he tells him, avoiding looking at the crater next to them only with an effort. He doesn't want to see it again. 

Krycek's expression softens, and he nods at Mulder. They make their way to the truck in unspoken agreement and leave. They both know that wherever they go now, whatever wars they happen to fight, it'll be together. 

The day is waning when they pass by the place where Mulder saw the flower. Mulder makes him stop, and they both get out to look. The daisy's gone, but in its place there are two new buds. Krycek wraps his arms around Mulder, the real and the fake one, and kisses him. Mulder can feel Krycek's heart racing against his as he moans into his mouth. 

"Is it spring?" he murmurs against Krycek's lips. 

"Nearly fall," Krycek informs him, not pulling away. Kissing him again. 

Mulder smiles. "If we catch a falling leaf on the first day of autumn we won't catch a cold all winter."

Krycek's only answer is to kiss him harder. It's morning again when they finally drive away. 

They learn how to live again, and in time Mulder does tell Krycek all the things he wanted to. They find out they still know how to love, and Mulder discovers there are many other words inside him that had always been waiting there. 

They don't remember about the first day of autumn until it's much later in the season. But it doesn't matter. 

Through all the days that come and go after that, they are both as warm as they can be.

**Author's Note:**

> Further Author's Notes: Just in case these are too obscure superstitions, I thought I'd add an explanation here: 
> 
> About the knife: if a friend gives you a knife, you should give him a coin, or your friendship will soon be broken.   
> About the coin: it's bad luck to pick up a coin if it's tails side up. Good luck comes if it's heads up. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Heads Carolina, Tails California  
> (Tim Nichols / Mark D Sanders)  
> (recorded by Jo Dee Messina)
> 
> Baby, what do you say we just get lost?  
> Leave this one horse town like two rebels without a cause.  
> I got people in Boston  
> Ain't your daddy still in Des Moines?  
> We can pack up tomorrow, tonight, let's flip a coin.
> 
> Heads Carolina, Tails California  
> Somewhere greener, somewhere warmer  
> Up in the mountains, down by the ocean  
> Where? It don't matter as long as we're going  
> Somewhere together. I've got a quarter  
> Heads Carolina, Tails California
> 
> We can load what we own in the back of a U-haul van  
> Couple modern day Moses', searching for the promised land  
> We can go four hundred miles before we stop for gas  
> We can drive for a day, and then we'll take a look at the map.
> 
> Heads Carolina, Tails California  
> Somewhere greener, somewhere warmer  
> Up in the mountains, down by the ocean  
> Where? It don't matter as long as we're going  
> Somewhere together. I've got a quarter  
> Heads Carolina, Tails California
> 
> We're gonna get outta here if we gotta ride a Greyhound bus  
> Boy, we're bound to outrun the bad luck that's tailin' us
> 
> Heads Carolina, Tails California  
> Somewhere greener, somewhere warmer  
> Up in the mountains, down by the ocean  
> Where? It don't matter as long as we're going  
> Somewhere together. I've got a quarter  
> Heads Carolina, Tails California.


End file.
